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Don wished that he could get revenge for Rena's death. She was a sweet soul who was murdered for no reason other than that she had met him. Now she had been shot down in the prime of her life by somebody seeking revenge for a murder that Don didn't even commit. There was no one to retaliate against—the Apostle Clay had seen his opportunity and seized it, murdering Domino and leaving Don without an outlet for his sense of rage and loss. Don knew he couldn't strike at Clay. He owed the fact that he was still breathing to Clay, but that was a double-edged sword, because he knew that the Apostles were probably already hunting him in the streets.

It was too hot for him in Chi-town. His best bet would be to get out of the frying pan.

Minnesota seemed to be calling him. Everybody seemed
to be migrating to St. Paul and Minneapolis anyway. Since he really couldn't picture himself living in some one-horse, backwater town in Mississippi, somewhere north seemed like the best option. It would be easy for him to lose himself among the millions of people there. Copping crack definitely wouldn't be a problem—lots of dealers from the city had moved there because it was a fresh market for crack.

He wasn't leaving much behind, only his sister and mother. All of his friends were gone, Juanita was dead, and now Rena.

Don picked up his pipe. It was time to stop thinking. He didn't need to get emotional in such a tight space. Trying to shut down his brain, Don packed the bowl of his whistle and sucked it clean.

Pipe in hand, he turned on the television. He flicked through the channels until he came to the evening news. After five minutes he was about to change the channel when the newscast switched from the studio to a female reporter broadcasting live on location; the location was his mother's house. His address flashed across the screen as the reporter droned on. Don turned up the volume as the screen flashed to a high-school graduation picture of his sister. Stunned, Don listened to the reporter.

A gust of wind blew the Latin reporter's long hair in her face. “We're here live at 6417 South Langley, the scene of a grisly murder. Nineteen-year-old Rhonda Haskill has been positively identified as the victim. From what we have been
able to glean from a source in Area 1, the young woman was raped and murdered by an unknown number of suspects.

“Evidently, Rhonda struggled with her assailants and was murdered during the struggle. As of yet the coroner hasn't established the time of death. Her body was found by Hazel Haskill, a forty-two-year-old desk sergeant at Area 2 headquarters. Rhonda was …”

In a blind rage Don kicked the television off the stand. His vision blurred for a second. When his eyes focused again Don caught sight of his pipe. His hands trembled as he dropped ready rocks onto the screen of the pipe and took a blast. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he emptied the bowl.

Don blew out white smoke and laughed. “That reporter ho is lying. That wadn't my motherfucking house. That's some bullshit.”

Laughing, he fell back on the bed. Incessant banging on the room door dried up his insane laughter.

“Open this gotdamn door!”

Don recognized the disembodied voice of the motel manager.

“What's wrong?” Don asked without opening the door.

“Nigga, I know yo ass is trying to steal the tv! I done already called the police! I said open this damn door!”

Don realized too late that in any cheap motel if you unplugged the television an alarm sounded in the manager's office. He collected his pistol, pipe, and crack and dipped into
the bathroom. The window opened easily and Don dropped out of it onto some rubbish in the alley.

Through a crack in the boards of the fence surrounding the motel he saw a blue and white patrol car pull up in front of the manager's office. He could hear the irate manager beckoning to them from in front of his room door. The two officers catapulted from the car and headed for the stairwell.

Don turned and ran up the alley until he reached 67th Street. On 67th he walked west to Cottage Grove. There he sat on a bench at the bus stop. He really didn't need to rest; he needed a blast. With total disregard for the few people waiting for the bus, Don smoked a bowl of crack.

His close brush with the law had made reality smack him in the face. His sister was dead. The only thing he could do was try and find out who did the deed. He would have to go home and talk to his mother. It was a long shot, but she might know something. Maybe the police had told her something. It might have been insignificant to them, but it could be just enough of a clue for him to find out who did this shit to his sister.

The bus pulled up and everyone got on, except for Don. He took another hit of crack. He decided that he needed a ride, not a bus ride, but in somebody's car. He walked to the corner and waited for someone to pull up to the light. After several light changes, still no luck. The traffic light turned red again and his pigeon pulled up to the light.

A female driver in a gold Toyota Cressida sat at the light, bobbing her head to music.

Careful not to attract her attention, Don eased his pistol out and stepped off the curb. He dashed to the driver's side door and yanked it open.

“Bitch, get out my car!” Don snarled, putting his gun to her head.

The scared woman made a move to try and peel off.

With his free hand Don cocked the hammer of his pistol and then grabbed her dreadlocks.

“Ho, if you get out now you'll live to drive again,” Don threatened.

This time she saw the logic in Don's approach and threw the gearshift in park. She got out in the middle of Cottage Grove.

Don jumped in the car, slammed the door, and made a U-turn in the intersection. His last glimpse of the woman was of her sitting on the bus-stop bench with her head in her hands. He left the radio volume loud as he peeled up Cottage Grove. At 71st Street he turned the radio down in front of the police station and turned west, heading for King Drive. On King Drive he swung a right and sped down to 63rd Street.

He was going home, but first he needed to check out a few things. On 63rd Street he parked the Cressida and hopped out. After making sure the butt of his pistol was in plain view, he strolled into his old hangout.

The game room was packed. As Don walked to the rear of the establishment, anyone near the front door thinned out. In the rear of the game room there were a few new faces
and some regulars. Carlos was there, and his appearance since the last time Don had seen him had totally changed. He had on new shoes, new clothes, and a half-carat diamond shone in his ear. Carlos was perched on some milk crates talking on a cellular phone.

When Carlos looked up and saw Don standing over him, he stuttered for a few seconds more into his cell phone and then ended the call.

“What's up, 'Los?” Don asked evenly. He had been extra careful to make sure there was no animosity in his voice when he spoke.

Carlos didn't sense any malice in Don's voice so he decided to play along and see where the conversation took them. He knew Don had to have heard about his sister. That was the only reason he could see for his old friend to be on the set as hot as his name was.

“Nothing to it, but to do it,” Carlos replied.

“I ain't on no bullshit, Carlos. I just want to holler at you about some shit real quick.”

Carlos stood up. As he followed Don toward the door he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to grip his .380 Super. Clicking the safety off, Carlos decided it was better to be safe than sorry. He closely watched every movement Don made as he followed him outside.

Don sat on the hood of his freshly jacked car and lit a cigarette. “Like I said, 'Los, I ain't on no bullshit. I just want to know what the word on the bricks is about my sister. I got to get the …” Don stopped talking because his voice was
shaking. He looked away so Carlos wouldn't see the tears in his eyes.

Carlos looked away too. “We been looking for the motherfuckas, too. That was some bogus shit. Rhonda was like a big sister to us, too. We been knowing her since we was shorties coming to get you for school. She ain't never hurt nobody. That nigga Dre snapped when he heard the news. We tore the Tray up and 61st, but don't nobody know shit. Dre wanna see you, man. Yo moms, too. We looking for the studs, too. You gone be alright?”

“I'm straight,” Don said as he walked around to the driv-er's side of the Cressida. “Imma bump heads with y'all later. I got to go check on some shit.”

Don got in the car and peeled out.

In his wake Carlos hopped in his Seville and whipped out his cellular. “Dre, this is 'Los. Don was just up here at the game room. Yeah, he look crazy than a motherfucka. Smoked out and shit. Hell, yeah. He ain't on no bullshit, though. Yeah, he heard about Rhonda. He ready to hurt something. He ain't say where he was going, but he driving a little gold Toyota. Alright, Imma call you back later.”

DETECTIVES WINTERS AND CARSON SAT IN THEIR UN
marked police vehicle sipping coffee from a Thermos. They were parked half a block away from the Haskill residence and trying to be as inconspicious as possible. So far the night had proved uneventful. Bad vibes after the grisly murder of Rhonda Haskill had the block's residents barricading themselves in their homes before the streetlights flickered on.

Around ten p.m., a dark blue Buick Century with tinted windows drove down the block. It pulled into a parking space across the street from the Haskill house. Ten minutes passed and the passengers still remained in the car.

Winters sat forward and squinted at the Buick. “Winters, that Century. Nobody got out. I can't make out how many passengers through that fucking tint.”

Using field binoculars, Carson took a look at the mid-sized sedan. He gave the Buick, and the street, a good look. He placed the binoculars back on the seat and reached for his cup of coffee.

“Looks normal, Winters. I can't see any movement. Probably just some horny kids out for a quickie in mom's car.”

Winters kept her eyes on the Buick as she reached for the radio. “I don't know, Carson. It may be nothing, but I think I'll have a blue and white roll through. If that doesn't clear them up, then we need to do an ‘approach and interview.’ ”

Carson put his hand over Winters’ hand on the radio. He let it remain there for a few seconds longer than he should have.

“Don't do that, Winters. I'm telling you, it's nothing. Just a couple of kids. It would be just our luck that Donald shows and sees a squad car. That'll scare him off for certain. Don-Don is coming. I know he's heard about his sister's death by now. We can't blow a stakeout in a major homicide case because a couple of kids were smoking dope or playing touchy-feely. We're already getting dragged over a cheese grater because we haven't produced this kid. C'mon now, Winters, stay focused.”

Winters released the radio and sat back.
Maybe he's right,
she thought.
I'm probably just antsy from sitting so long.

In the blue Buick Century, Juanita's brothers waited to ambush Don-Don. Tyrone sat at the steering wheel and
Michael filled the passenger seat; Johnny and Leroy occupied the backseat. They had returned every night since they'd murdered Rhonda. In between snorts of raw cocaine and puffs of wicked stick, they watched the house and the street.

“Stop hogging all the motherfucking coke, Lee!” Johnny said. “Ty, tell that nigga to stop trying to toot the whole motherfucking shit!”

Leroy looked up with white powder on the tip of his broad, brown nose. “Nigga, quit crying to Ty. Ty ain't my damn daddy. You always trying to coordinate the high and shit. Shit, I put up just as much as you on this shit. Ty, tell this nigga to shut the fuck up.”

With the embalming-fluid-dipped joint hanging out of the corner of his mouth, Tyrone said, “Both of you niggas need to shut the fuck up. Why don't you niggas stop acting like some bitches over that coke shit. That's why I don't even like snorting that white girl. Motherfuckas be ready to kill each other over some funky-ass powder. Shit taste like aspirin anyway. Lee, pass the motherfucking shit, before I have to whup one of y'all ass.”

Leroy took one more quick toot and then handed the sandwich bag to his brother. Like his brother, Michael preferred to smoke wicked sticks instead of snorting cocaine. He liked the crazy courage the formaldehyde gave him.

Half an hour after the brothers had parked their car, a gold Cressida zoomed up and whipped into the parking space in front of the Haskill house. Without turning the car
off the driver peered around for a few seconds and got out of the car.

“It's him, that got to be him,” Johnny hissed excitedly. “I told y'all the nigga would come!”

Leroy reached down to the shoe box at his feet and pulled out four pistols. He gave one to each of his brothers, keeping one for himself. Leroy and Johnny were prepared to exit the vehicle blasting, but Tyrone stopped them.

Tyrone craned his neck to peer through the passenger window. “Hold fast, y'all. What the fuck is this nigga doing? Can you see, Johnny?”

Johnny didn't have to answer.

After parking the Cressida, Don looked up and down the block. The set seemed clear so he got out of the car, sat on the hood, and whipped out his pipe. He dropped a few small rocks into the pipe and used his lighter to get rid of them.

Down the street the detectives watched in disbelief as Don smoked the crack. All the time they had been after him they thought he was a heavyweight drug dealer, not a crackhead.

“Look at this jerk, Winters. This son-of-a-bitch has got balls. He's smoking dope right in front of his mother's house.” Carson's face was red as he handed his partner the field glasses. “Are you ready to get this asshole?”

Don was tapping his quickly cooling pipe on his leg to remove any loose residue. The gold Cressida gleamed in the night as Don left the hood and headed for the steps of his house.
When Don's back was to the street the four doors of the Buick Century opened and Juanita's brothers oozed out of the car.

Detective Carson had removed his .38 from the holster and was prepared to exit the vehicle when Winters placed her hand on his arm.